My Soul to Take
by Wren Arnold
Summary: chapter three of seven uploaded. A burglary keeps the CSI team working hard to decipher the bewildering clues left behind. (s3)
1. It Came Out of the TV

**title**: My Soul to Take  
**author**: Wren Arnold  
**disclaimer**: me no own CSI. box? clowns? yes.  
**rating**: PG-13  
**spoilers**: season three  
**summary**: A burglary keeps the CSI team working hard to decipher the bewildering clues left behind.

  


_Am I my brother's keeper?_  
**Genesis 4,9**

  


*

**chapter one**: It Came Through the TV

*

**10:32 PM  
The McClanahan Residence  
Saturday, June 14, 2003**

Moisture was thick in the air, creeping through the night like an assassin. 

It was a small room as viewed from the south window. Along the north wall one could spy bookshelves with thick volumes upon it, red and green and blue. The shelves reached the ceiling nearly, so tall were they, and were filled with, aside from books, various photos in frames, nick-knacks, and other such trinkets. Cluttered, but not distastefully so, the structure dominated the far side of the room. 

To the left one saw an entertainment center, lined with DVDs and VHS tapes on those shelves that were apparent, and the side of a television. The television set glared with comfort, the colors throwing themselves out upon objects with no thought at all. The entertainment center, white, changed color minutely with the scenes and actors that the set showed. The lights were off, including the lamp near the edge of the windowsill, tall and ornate, and that cast a bluish glow upon the whole of the room not affected by the muted colors of the television. 

If the colors were muted, the sound certainly was not. It boomed through the room from several places, screaming out wordlessly, its meaning warped and garbled in its path. Screeching its message across, the desperate noises clawed endlessly at the ears, waiting. For what they were lingering could not be discerned. 

There was a giant of a figure in the middle of the room, towards the right and east of the window. Drooped across the dark red, overstuffed couch with a lazy air, it snored with contentment, the uneven, choking breath cutting across the smooth tones of the television with ease. A remote lay fallen from the thick, sausage fingers on one of the lumpy, faded cushions, quite plain that it was dropped as slumber overtook the viewer. A flat-topped chest served as a sort of wooden bench next to the couch. 

With care, a thin hand slithered through the window, opened for coolness in the face of the storm, and soon the heavy glass lamp two inches from the sill came crashing to the floor, the ringing of the breaking pieces echoing softly, one after another. The figure jerked awake, the body snapping up like a jackknife. 

"Who's there?" inquired a rough, masculine voice drowsy with sleep. He paused; cleared his throat; continued . "Who's there?" He turned the television off with a clatter, the darkness shocking to the senses. From the surround sound speakers the television continued to blast . He groped his way off of the sofa, standing tall and straight. The man may have been large on the couch, but he was truly gargantuan when erect, with a shoulder span that any professional player of football would have envied. 

Fingers appeared on the ledge, five of them, and a shadow was thrown up and on to the top of the sill. Standing, balancing, the shadow was no taller than the man as he stood. Nimbly leaping over the mess of glass shards, the shadow took a tentative step forward. 

"Oh," said the man with a dismissive tone. "It's only you." 

It began to rain. 

The shadow became more bold, lifting its arms together. In its hands there was an object very much like an irregular piece of wood. Taking care, the shadow moved a thumb. Something clicked. The eyes of the man grew large and he stumbled backwards. 

"What'd'ya think you're doin'?" he cried, passion coloring his voice. 

A finger twitched. Thunder clapped. The man lurched, bending over, silent. His mouth moved, made words, but he was voiceless. He clutched his breast, his breath sloshing in his chest. His hands came to his face stained cherry, and they left bright streaks where he wiped them on his cheeks. 

Another roar of thunder and he stopped, falling on his knees, clutching the top of his chest for a moment before his grip slipped. He moved unnaturally, in a puppet-like fashion. He plummeted forward, onto his face, and on his back in the white of his shirt there was a torn and stained hole. The other in the room stared for a long while, not breathing more than the shallowest of breaths. The idea of shock lay densely in the room. 

Slowly, efficiently, the shadow went to the nearest shelf and began gathering up an armful of objects: the movies stocked neatly in their place, a few ornaments and baubles. Walking ten steps, the shadow traveled back to the spot where the first thunder sounded and dropped them. They crashed and tumbled to the floor. 

The shadow turned and barreled out of the window, the tiny person making heavy indentations in the soft mud outside. Hurriedly rubbing its hand over the ledge with the cloth pulled over its wrists, the shadow turned. There were trees, shrubs, and flowers after a short clearing, and the shadow leapt those. Rose bushes catching on cloth, the shadow broke loose, met the hard concrete road, and ran down it to the west. 

The footsteps sounded loudly in the dark. 

**2:08 AM  
The McClanahan Residence  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

"Happy Father's Day," Catherine Willows muttered to herself as she stepped cautiously onto the wet and slippery gravel drive of a quiet suburban neighborhood. Two story, upper-middle class houses were stationed up and down the street in neat rows, with perfectly manicured lawns and appropriate bushes lining the walls under the windows and next to side of the separate garages. 

Or, rather, it would have been quiet if it weren't for the high-pitched wailing that seemed to be coming from the very house which she was about to enter. She was in no mood for whatever seemed to be making the noise, having been assured that not only were her plans to meet a friend for a schedule brunch were null and void only forty minutes earlier by her boss, Gil Grissom, but that she would get thoroughly soaked on first look out her window. Clouds had been hanging low on the horizon and the pale paths of the moon did nothing to calm her fears of downpour. 

Now she was trudging up a long drive, clouds ominously hiding the full moon from her, though not a drop fell from the sky as of yet. She held her umbrella over her as a sort of precaution in any case, not wishing to tempt the gods. 

Her dark jacket buttoned loosely, Catherine's hair was swept back in a slapdash fashion that betrayed a quick 'do. Boots dangerously high in the heel, she traversed the gravel with the grace born of her years of dance; there was nothing to boots and wet rocks once one learned to dance in stilettos. 

The mahogany door of the house wide open, Catherine stepped under the police barrier tape and immediately discovered the source of the shrieks as she folded her umbrella with a clang. A young dark-haired girl lay clutching what Catherine only assumed was her most important piece of evidence in the crime scene before her -- the body. 

The room was filled with pictures from Catherine's vintage point. The requisite school pictures aside, there were dozens of candid shots on the tables and shelves. Smiling down from the three inch border that extended out from the wall all across the room were even more, of smiling children of all ages. So many children, in fact, that it was nearly impossible to decipher the inhabitants of the home by merely the photos. The family that lived in the house was indiscriminate with its photo-decorating. 

"Oh, brother," grumbled she. "It's going to be one of those days." 

Brass stepped forward, motioning to Catherine's left. "Vic's name is Damien McClanahan. Mother is over there with two of the three siblings, father is deceased. Mrs. McClanahan came down the stairs after she checked on the kids and found out the youngest girl wasn't in her bed. She wandered down, saw the scene, called nine-one-one, and promptly 'freaked the hell out' as her oldest daughter put it. Sounds like the girl; she started screeching as soon as she caught sight of her mother. We can't get the kid to let go of the body." 

"Right," Catherine replied, "and do we have any idea as too how long she's been contaminating my scene?" 

"Hey, your guess is as good as mine. She won't let anybody through to get a liver temp, and we can't talk to her to figure out how long she's been down here." Brass shrugged off the inconvenience. "It's only been about twenty minutes since the Medical Examiners got here, though. It generally takes them this long to get set up." 

"Hmm," agreed the female CSI. "And I thought today was my day off." It didn't look as if Catherine would be using this day any time soon. "What's with all the trees?" 

"Development area," Brass told her. "They have a wooded lot a couple of miles down the road -- I'd say, nine or so. Pretty nice place." 

"Catherine," called out Nick Stokes from behind her. The woman turned and saw the man shaking his rain gear off in the foyer. Nothing fell off his dry, crinkling material. "What's making that racket?" 

"A Furby," Catherine replied dryly. Nick seemed to think this was a true and acceptable answer from Catherine, unfortunately, and Catherine wondered how many hours he had spent in front of the Discovery Channel on his television to perfect that surprised, wide-eyed look. Off of Nick's naive belief, and trying to stave off a round of questions, she elaborated. "The sister of our vic. Seems she found him earlier and hasn't stopped --" 

"--contaminating our crime scene," Nick interrupted. Clearly, he was as peeved as Catherine was that the girl was allowed to be in the area and ruin it so effectively. "She got her hair in the blood! Blood with hair in it, Catherine." 

"Stop whining," Catherine admonished, though that was exactly how she was going to finish her thought. The girl did have her hair all over the blood, and it was a great annoyance. "We're not going to let one teenager ruin a scene. We'll improvise." A crack of lightning lit the room immediately followed by a clamor of thunder. Catherine jumped. "God damn it!" 

"It was a dark and gloomy night," Nick cackled, rubbing his hands together. "Oh, come on, Cath, it was only a bit of thunder." 

"Cut the Poe, Shakespeare, and let's go get a time of death for the M.E.'s office before they worry themselves into a frenzy as to how to disengage the child from the body." 

"What, we're just gonna --" sputtered Nick. 

"Yeah," Catherine told him, "and then she might leave." 

She meant, of course, exactly what he thought she meant: Catherine was prepared to take a liver temperature if they were only able to move the girl away from a good enough area so that they could actually insert the instrument and then make certain that she didn't jar it. Though, Nick did not see what another, less staid person, might have seen: that Catherine was merely joking. 

"I don't think that's advisable," Nick informed her with a very solemn look. "We should probably try to get her away first." 

Catherine sighed in mock disappointment, raising her brows and following the cracks in the ceiling with her eyes. 

"Okay then. You talk to the parents, I'll take the teen." 

"Hey, why do you get to take the teen?" cried Nick, defensive with immediacy at the head. He was wary of whatever Catherine was up to, though he wasn't certain what was happening. "Why don't you take the family?" 

"Because, Nick, I've got a daughter. I think I might have a little more experience with this ." Catherine saw her logic, and showed it very plainly to Nick. She refrained from adding, _And I'm the senior CSI here._

"You suggested taking the guy's temperature while the sister was on it. You were going to stick something into him while she watched." 

"At least it isn't an anal thermometer. Those things are totally useless when it comes down to accuracy." 

Smiling once she turned, Catherine walked with strong strides across the living room and to the scene of commotion, where several detectives were trying to persuade a girl of about fourteen or fifteen off of the body of a young Caucasian male with bullet wounds in the left chest and blood pooled all about his body. 

"Why hasn't anybody given this girl tranquilizers?" she called out imperiously. 

"We don't have any with us," replied one of the police officers. "We're waitin' for someone to bring 'em. Trust me, I've been here half an hour, and I really wish we'd brought 'em with us. This girl has some lungs." 

"Excuse me," Catherine said, "but do you have her name?" 

The officer looked down at the clipboard he was holding. "Um, McClanahan," he said uncertainly. Then he brightened, "Mary McClanahan." 

Catherine appeared not to be impressed with his less than stellar ability to remember the girl's name. He was, after all, working with her. Had he not called out to her using her first name, trying to coax her away from her brother? It just went to show you how well trained in sensitivity the police officers were. 

The officer glanced away, then backed up. Catherine leaned down over the girl, her tough features melting into a much kinder face. 

"Hey, Mary," Catherine said to the sobbing teen. "Mary, Mary, look at me." 

But the dark brown hair, matted with blood, continued to be the only thing she saw of Mary McClanahan. Catherine had a half-moment's thought that she could perhaps get a good look at the victim with the girl on him. Examining the body around the frame of the girl proved to be almost impossible, though; she was writhing upon the body, wiping her hands all over her dress and hair as soon as she touched anything. Catherine sighed. 

"Mary, my name is Catherine. Mary, now, look up at me, okay. I need to see your face when I talk to you, okay?" 

Something more uniformly muffled than the broken sobs came drifting upward. 

"That's good," Catherine muttered. "It means you're talking to me. Now can you lift you heard and repeat that?" 

Slowly, a streaked, blood-crusted face with red-rimmed eyes revealed itself beneath its mass of brunette hair. 

"He's dead," Mary McClanahan declared in a quivering voice. 

**5:15 AM  
Las Vegas Crime Lab  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

"Oh, God," Nick cried for the fifteenth time. "Oh, God. This is going to be a mess." 

"Now, Nick," Gil Grissom reproved from behind the contents scattered on his desk, "I know today is Sunday but could you please try to keep it down?" 

"Very funny, Grissom," Nick retorted, "but I can't believe that we have to go through this all in such a state. Mary McClanahan was all over this stuff. Look, here are bloody fingerprints far too small to be our vic's all over these CDs. It's like she went around touching everything. There wasn't even a lot of blood!" 

"She may have been trying to deny what had just happened. We won't know until we put all this together." 

"I should have gone to the scene," Nick grumbled. "Now Sara's over there with the good stuff." 

"If I recall you offered to sort out and catalogue these items. You said it would be more of a challenge," Grissom reminded him. 

Nick managed to grin. "If I had known how much of a challenge I would have stayed at the scene, let Warrick take this." 

"Warrick wouldn't have taken it," replied Grissom. "He's not on the case. I assigned him to an elementary school break-in that happened last night. Probably some pranksters that felt like goofing off before summer classes begin. I thought I'd get that out of the way before anything else." 

"Why's Warrick on a vandalism case?" Nick asked. 

"I have my reasons," Grissom stated enigmantically. 

"Oh," Nick said, effectively shattering a silence before it happened. "So it's just you, me, Sara, and Cath, right?" 

"Exactly," Grissom answered. "Now, let's get started." 

**5:29 AM  
The McClanahan Residence  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

Sara Sidle pushed back her damp bangs and looked up at the sky. 

"Is it ever gonna rain?" she asked of no one in particular. If Las Vegas decided that it was a perfect time to uncharacteristically storm up in the middle of June so be it -- but could the damn city at least make clean with its promise of water to the thirsty? 

"Are you kidding?" exclaimed one of the photographers. "And ruin all this prime evidence? Yeah, right! This, this is all perfect. Perfect, perfect! It only drizzled for about ten minutes, and that was either right before or during the time the perp was makin' his move. Look at these footprints. Heavy, man." 

Sara placed a ruler down next a print and clicked a picture. "About a size eight. Eight and a half maybe?" She peered into the thick imprint with a question on her face. "Something seems off." She put the ruler in the print and measured its depth, electronic noises declaring that another picture had been taken. 

"Hmm?" the photographer asked. Sara pointed to the print. The photographer got down on his hands and knees in the mud and examined the deep impression closely. "Oh, you're right." 

"Well, they aren't paying me for my looks," Sara retorted, amused. 

"Don't be so sure," muttered a passing police officer. Sara whirled around, but wasn't able to figure out who had said it. 

"Let's look for a gun people," Brass called out to everyone as he walked. "Side of the road, bushes, come on!" 

"Oh," the photographer murmured. "Oh," again. 

"What?" Sara cried. "What? What did I find?" 

"There aren't any shoe marks." 

"Huh?" 

Without further thought -- much to her later chagrin; they were new pants -- Sara kneeled down in the sticky mud next to where the photographer was bent and looked anxiously into the hole. He was right -- where there should have been ridges and lesser indentations indicating the make of the shoe there was only a smooth, blank spot. 

"With the firmness of the mud and the level to which the shoe sank this person had to have been at least one hundred thirty pounds," Sara muttered. "It isn't like they tip-toed out of here. The pattern indicates that they left in a hurry, from that window to the road. So why didn't their shoe leave ridges?" 

"Well, this burglary-turned-homicide certainly just got interesting," Brass said from behind Sara. 

"I knew something was off," Sara said with relish. The photographer looked at her askance. 

*

Next, chapter two -- **My Date with Surly**


	2. My Date with Surly

**title**: My Soul to Take  
**author**: Wren Arnold  
**disclaimer**: me no own CSI. box? clowns? yes.  
**rating**: PG-13  
**spoilers**: season three  
**summary**: A burglary keeps the CSI team working hard to decipher the bewildering clues left behind.

  


_Am I my brother's keeper?_  
**Genesis 4,9**

  


**chapter two**: My Date with Surly 

* 

**9:37 AM  
Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room A  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

Catherine Willows watched the McClanahan family carefully from across the table as Mrs. Shannon McClanahan and her three remaining children comforted each other and especially Mary. The dark-haired youngster had finished her loud, hoarse sobs and was now rubbing her eyes, choking on her own tears. This, however, Catherine didn't find interesting. 

What she found interesting was the girl sitting next to Mary, close enough in resemblance to be the first teen's twin, who stared with oddly detached features into the double mirror of the Interview Room. Looking down at the papers in front of her for the first time, Catherine tried to put a name with the face. 

Susej McClanahan, fifteen years old, was not, in fact, the twin of her sister Mary, who was three years her junior. Surprise, surprise, mused Catherine. Susej was the classic troubled teen, it appeared, with four suspensions from school in the past three years for fighting. Aggressive behavior ran rampant across the report. Catherine pushed it aside, waiting for the family to calm down. 

Mary's papers were next, explaining an almost ideal child in a twelve-year-old. Apparently athletic, if one could tell by the various teams she played on each year, the youngster was a straight-A student. Her school transcripts showed glowing reports, but there was nothing to give the character of Mary. 

A dull life, Catherine decided, and she's just gotten her first shock. 

The youngest child in the room was not Mary but the little boy Joseph, aged seven. With brightly sun highlighted hair, he was the closest any in the McClanahan family could come to being call towheaded. His report was also much like Susej's, filled with notes from teachers and principals about his tendency towards destructive behavior. At the moment, little Joey didn't look the least bit antagonistic: he looked scared. 

"Mary?" Catherine interrupted the girl's sobbing. "Mary, do you remember me?" She tried smiling brightly, but her eye caught a smudge of red near the child's hairline and the attempt faded. "I'm Catherine, Mary, and I want to know all about last night. It's going to be scary, but it'll be okay. Your mother is right here with you if you need help, okay?" 

Mary nodded in the middle of a hiccough. 

"Good girl," praised Catherine. "Now, can you tell me about last night?" 

"Okay," whispered Mary. 

** 10:45 AM  
The McClanahan Residence  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

"Is that all you got?" Brass asked. Sara glared at him from underneath the window, where she was checking for fingerprints. 

There were no fingerprints, actually, which was peculiar in itself. The perpetrator had used some sort of cloth to smooth the surface, thinking himself clever. However, much to Sara's glee, there were was appeared to be minute fibers on the rough surface of the wood. Hopefully they belonged to whatever was used to wipe down the ledge and the lab would be able to find something of use with them. 

Using her tweezers, she plucked the largest piece she could find off of the wood and placed it in a plastic bag. 

"Yeah," Sara told him, "but don't be so heartbroken. We've got a lot of evidence here. These fibers I just pulled off of the window ledge, for example. We've also got a piece of fabric off of the rosebush, which is a real find. It's in the same area as the footprints, so a good chance is our perp snagged himself on the prickly flowers as he was rushing through." Sara held up a bag in which a good-sized piece of black or navy blue cloth was placed. 

_(- Sprinting through the bushes, the shadow got snagged on the bush. It grabbed the bushes and pushed them away from itself, leaving a piece of what got caught on one thorn and a miniscule drop of blood on another. -)_

"Thick, it looks like it could have been a sweater or maybe a jacket. We're taking the surrounding bushes and spreading them out in about half an hour, trying to see if we have any blood or skin on other thorns if we're terribly lucky." 

Brass looked through the window into the living room where the crime had occurred, which, though lacking several articles after Grissom and Nick had picked through it, looked to be in a complete disarray. 

"Have you even stepped foot inside?" inquired he. 

Sara grinned up at him. "I'm waiting for Stokes to get finished with his stuff so he can share the goods with me. I'm not gonna get all worked up over it until I'm certain that I have someone behind me. It's too much job for one CSI, too many little things can be overlooked. It's a duo or more that's needed." She winked. "Besides, won't you love to see Nick's face when he realizes I haven't done anything inside?" 

Sara chuckled to herself as she labeled her bag. 

** 11:04 AM  
Littleton Park Elementary School  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

Warrick Brown looked at the building in front of him and grimaced. 

"Always hated school." 

Next to him, a tech nodded. "Nerd?" 

Warrick snorted. "Big time." 

"Well, don't worry," the tech said comfortingly. "It's Sunday. No classes are in session at this location. Besides, it's an elementary school. There, it was cool to have the most happy faces on your papers. Or, ya know, your name not on the board for not doing your homework." 

"You didn't go to public school, did you?" Warrick queried. The tech shrugged. "Ah, well, let's find the janitor to this prison." 

At that moment, the door to the school's entryway sprang wide open and a petite Middle Eastern woman stepped out of the frame. Walking briskly toward them, she reminded Warrick of nothing so much as a small tornado. Her dark brown hair swept carelessly up, she exuded a whirlwind-like confidence all about her. Tiny in stature, her dark eyes and lips added something to her that Warrick could not place a finger on. Aside, of course, from the fact that he found her wildly attractive. 

"Are you with the crime lab?" she asked, smiling. Warrick nodded mutely while the tech made inarticulate noises ("Wom..."). "I'm Miriam Prasad, the principal here." 

He cleared his throat, self-conscious. "Warrick Brown," he stated, extending his hand. Her grasp was surprisingly firm. 

"Good. I was hoping that you could come today. I would have waited ... but then it looked like this had some blood on it." 

"Excuse me?" Warrick uttered, intrigued. He began putting on a pair of gloves, preparing to handle sensitive evidence. 

"Here, let me show you." 

No sooner expressed than action done, Miriam Prasad turned on her heel and began walking with a quick gait to the side of the school. Using his longer legs to good use, Warrick managed to keep pace with the vibrant woman. The tech miserably jogged behind them both. 

"This garbage can," Principal Prasad explained, pointing to the top. She lifted the lid gingerly with the tips of her fingers covered by her sweater. Warrick hastily offered his gloved assistance. "I was here late last night, cleaning up after a PTA meeting and trying to get some paperwork done. I always feel like I work best here, away from the distractions of my smoothie machine and TV just feet away in my home." 

Warrick beamed rather stupidly at her. 

"It was about ten forty-five when I heard the noises. At first, I was scared out of my mind. We've had some trouble here in the past. Wannabes have their own initiation ceremonies, and they're sometimes held here behind the baseball field. You can get twenty ten-and-eleven-year-olds together throwing some kid through the gauntlet, though, so I stormed on out of here with a flashlight, not minding the rain which had just started. Of course, that scared whoever was out here, and the lid thundered down." 

She pointed to the open lid again as if to reinforce her point. 

"Well, it's pretty easy to tell the difference from left and right, so I turned towards where the sound was coming from. I managed to get here just in time to see a thin figure running as fast as they could on the slippery concrete." She looked at herself. "So, um, yeah. It wasn't a junior gang." 

Warrick digested the information. "You mentioned blood?" 

"Oh, yeah," the principal said. "Right. Well, there's a sweatshirt in there. I just thought maybe some kids were having some fun or something, so after I filed the report this morning at home I came here to wait. My curiosity got the better of me and I figured I'd take a look and see what sort of present they left me. When I reached down to see what they'd done I found that --" and she motions vaguely at a pile of shadowy cloth -- "and it had some stains on it that certainly looked like blood to me, but they could be ketchup." 

The tech already had the materials Warrick needed, and as he gingerly arrange the sweatshirt, looking for the blood, the tech was gathering them together, ready for him. There was indeed a splatter pattern on the shirt, hard to see at first. Warrick carefully took the scissors from the tech and snipped a piece off of the dark fabric of the sweatshirt. Dropping the clipping into a clear tube, Warrick took a few drops into the spigot and let them fall in also. The water glowed. 

"Presence of hemoglobin," he told the principal grimly. 

"Indicator of blood," replied sage she. 

** 12:20 PM  
Las Vegas Crime Lab  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

"Hey," Nick called to Sara, frowning, as they walked up the stairs to the building, "that wasn't funny back there. I walked in the room expecting it to be processed and you bounce on over with that happy little grin of yours, like you just did the world's funniest thing." 

"It's threatening to rain," declares Sara not at all petulantly. "I had to get the outside as thoroughly handled as possible unless I wanted all my evidence washed away. Even you would have done that, Stokes." 

Nick stared at her. "But," he added to her words, "I would have done it much quicker." 

"And not half as comprehensively as I." 

"Well..." admitted he. 

"Hey, you two," Grissom called as the two walked down the hall, "come in here. Sara, you noticed something pretty odd indeed over at the site." 

"You mean aside from the fact that there was a terrible lot of evidence there was a terrible lack of evidence?" Sara asked. 

"Even better. Look at these footprints and tell me what you see. Or don't see." 

"Well," began Nick matter-of-factly, "I don't see any markers indicating the sort of show it is. The ridges and indentations that are normally in a footprint are missing in this one." 

"Already found and noted," Sara said with no little relish. Nick rolled his eyes. 

"Do you see anything else?" Grissom prompted. 

Sara furrowed her brow. "Well," she hesitated, "it all sort of looks very uniform. This is left and this is right --" here, she pointed to the relevant footprints, "-- but aside from that it's very hard to tell the difference between them. They're exactly the save size and almost perfectly shaped like a foot, all of them." 

"Precisely," Grissom cried. 

"Oh, really?" 

"Yes," Grissom explained. "It's all, as Sara so aptly put it, too uniform. The depth is even all around. No curving: flat." 

"So our perp," Nick was really getting warmed up to this idea, "didn't manage to find himself a pair of brand-less shoes but managed to make his own pair." 

"I'm thinking more than that, Nick," Sara said. "Or, rather, less. Think it through. What's easier? Making your own shoes, or making a bottom for your shoes?" 

"Right," Nick exclaimed. "So he or she could have just put something on, like a piece of wood, and that would have been the bottom of their shoe." 

"Meaning," Grissom stated grimly, "that we have no idea what shoe size our perp wears. These could be modeled around exactly to the size of the perp's shoes." 

"But if our perp was smart enough to make these bottoms he was smart enough to make it a couple of inches larger," Sara sighed. 

"Right. So we have our work cut out for us." Grissom clapped his hands together briskly. "Ready?" 

* 

Up next, chapter three: The Dutch State


	3. The Dutch State

**title**: My Soul to Take  
**author**: Wren Arnold  
**disclaimer**: me no own CSI. box? clowns? yes.  
**rating**: PG-13  
**spoilers**: season three  
**summary**: A burglary keeps the CSI team working hard to decipher the bewildering clues left behind.

  


_Am I my brother's keeper?_  
**Genesis 4,9**

  


chapter three: **The Dutch State**

* 

**1:49 PM  
Las Vegas Crime Lab  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

"You know, I didn't expect it to rain," Sara said around a mouthful of sandwich. 

"That's attractive," Nick informed her. She blushed and cleared her mouth. 

"I mean, I know the forecasters have been saying that we'll get precipitation and all that meteorology terminology that means it'll rain and be muggy and stuff, but I didn't believe them." Sara took another bite, masticated, swallowed, then continued with a smirk at Nick. "This is Vegas in June. Do you think rain when you think Vegas in June? You think unbearable heat." 

"Oh, I dunno," Grissom said. "This is pretty unbearable heat." 

"But it's a wet heat. That's different from the dry heat, I think," Sara argued. 

"At the same time, Sara, people here are much more accustomed to a dry June heat coming up in waves off of the desert, not this sticky heat that clings to the skin," Nick pointed out. "That makes it pretty unbearable." 

Sara grinned. "I was just trained in California for this stuff, boy," she teased. "I've got field experience. You'll pass out before the day is through." 

"I may, from lack of sleep," Catherine said, entering the room. "Talking to that family is like having teeth pulled. The only one who seemed even the least bit willing to talk at all spent her time alternating between sobbing and giving me a vague account of what she found last night." 

"Lovely," Sara remarked. "How long were you with them?" 

"About four hours, most of it spent trying to coax the youngest girl to stop crying. You remember her, Nick?" 

"The teen who made my day that much harder because of her hair and prints all over the scene?" Nick asked incredulously. "Of course I remember her." 

"She's twelve," came solemnly from Catherine. 

"No! She looked at least fifteen," Nick told her. 

"She does have a fifteen-year-old sister who's as much in face and stature alike to her younger sister as to make me wonder if they were twins." 

"So we have sisters that look alike," Grissom said. "Moving along?" 

"Okay," Catherine started. "So, Mary says she came down around ten twenty to get a drink of water from the kitchen. It started to rain, so she went to the window on the north side of the house to watch the sky. That's when she heard thunder and got afraid, so she ran back up to her room." 

Nick raised an eyebrow. "So far not seeing how she gets to our vic?" 

"Oh, you'll see. Twenty minutes later, she realizes that she left her water in the kitchen." Catherine shook her head. "She goes back down to get it, hears the TV still on, and traipses into the living room to tell older brother to get to bed. She finds him and freaks, grabbing onto him and not doing anything until her mother comes, at which point she starts screaming." 

"Does she tell you why she screams?" Nick asked. 

"She said she felt like she had to cry or he wouldn't make it to heaven," Catherine said. She shrugged. "I didn't get the comment either." 

"Right, so, anything else?" Grissom inquired of the room at large. 

"Oh, um." Sara reached behind her. "I did a background on the family. You wouldn't believe what I came up with." 

"Try me," Grissom replied. 

"Right. So, we've got, between the years of 1980 and 1997, over fifteen police reports pointing towards domestic abuse in the McClanahan household were filed. It looks like, uh, before Mr. Judas McClanahan had an unfortunate accident with one of his guns, he hit his wife and maybe his kids. 

"Accident?" Nick was intrigued. 

"He ate it, apparently," Sara explained, "while cleaning his guns. He was home alone with the two middle children when it happened. Anyway, there's a remark here ..." 

Sara dug around in the papers for a few minutes, searching. "Ah, here!" she called. "Um, I'll just ... I'll read from here._ 'One of the three children appeared to be cradling her arm to her body and so I had a medical doctor check her. There appeared to be nothing wrong with the girl and so ...'_ blah, blah, blah, he goes on to explain why he used the doc. What I noticed here was 'three children.'" 

"So?" Catherine asked. 

"This is late '97, right before Jude McClanahan's death. Joey McClanahan was almost eighteen months -- in fact, he's mentioned here. Damien and Mary are mentioned also. The only one whose name is not in the report is --" 

"Susej McClanahan, who could be Mary's twin," Catherine finished. 

"I tried pulling medical files for all of the children," Sara started, "but I don't have a court order. My judge is on vacation." 

"And you can't go and borrow one?" asked Nick. 

"I like mine," replied Sara haughtily. 

"Well," Catherine said, "my judge isn't on vacation and I'm going to get her to order that the McClanahan children be placed into protective custody until the investigation is over. They need to be separated and away from their mother. If they coincide their stories, we're dead." 

"How are you gonna get your judge to do that?" Nick asked. 

"It's Judge Roberts," Catherine said. "With the evidence we have right here, and the evidence the medical files would provide, we could prove that Shannon McClanahan left her children in a dangerous situation. This is suspicious. What sort of neighborhood are they in? Roberts is a strong child-advocate. She'll be easy to convince." 

"So we have an abusive husband who died almost seven years ago," Grissom said. He paused. "And it looks like Susej was abused, but Mummy Dearest managed to hide that fact because Mary looked so much like older sister. Right?" 

"All three of the children could have been abused, not merely Susej," Nick pointed out. 

"I concede there," Catherine let, "but something tells me that I should start focusing my attention on the oldest McClanahan girl." 

"You play to shrink the head, she'll spill her life story," Grissom agreed. "I bet she's got it all up, ready to pop." 

**3:00 PM  
Las Vegas Police Department, Interview Room B  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

"So," Catherine said, handing a chocolate cookie to the sullen-faced teenager sitting across from her, "tell me about your father." 

The question didn't seem the faze the young girl as she crumbled the cookie to pieces. "Why did you take us away from our mom?" she asked in a thick, rough voice that was not altogether unpleasant or overly masculine. 

"Because we aren't sure if your mother is the best place for you right now," Catherine told her. 

"That's happy. Super. Look, my mother doesn't do anything wrong with us," said she. 

"We're investigating that." 

"You mean Child Services. You're a different branch." 

"You know your social services versus criminology," Catherine said. "Impressive." 

"I watch a lot of television." 

"So you know that by talking to me, you'll help me. The quicker you talk, the quicker we'll figure out that you were in a safe place, that you can go home." 

"I doubt it," Susej muttered. 

"Just talk," Catherine said. "Just for a while." 

"What do you want to know?" 

"Well, what did your dad like to do?" Catherine prodded. 

_(- A shot rang out, and a small child with large braids turned to the sound. Somewhere, a young, girlish voice is heard saying, "Gotta wash my hands. Gotta wash my hands." -)_

"Clean his guns." 

"You find that funny?" Catherine frowned at Susej. 

"Hey, he's my dad. I'm allowed." Susej uncrossed her arms and let them fall to her either side. 

"What are some of your earliest memories about your father?" pressed Catherine. She was leaning forward, her body language expressing a desire for information. "Christmas? Easter?" 

"What about Passover and Chanukah?" indignant Susej asked. "I could be Jewish. An Irish Jew." 

"Your name is Jesus backwards." 

"There actually is a church which supports Jews for Jesus," informed Susej. "Or synagogue. I'm not sure. I only read about it once, and with the passing interest I'd give a road apple. I'm not much into religion." 

"Well, that brings us to our next topic. Your names are all very interesting," Catherine told her. "Very Biblical. Mary and Joseph and the baby Susej. Except Damien's. Why is that?" 

"My father named Damien," the teen said. "He thought it was a man's name. A strong name. After Damien, though, my father got bored with children. Or babies. We were never grown up enough. Damien was always a step ahead, you know?" 

"He was older than you," Catherine pointed out. "Damien was always going to be ahead of you." 

"Yeah, well, not anymore." 

_(- A body lay under sheets in the morgue. -)_

Catherine allowed herself to chuckle. "You've got a twisted sense of humor for a girl your age." 

"I'm older than I look," Susej said. "I'm fifteen." 

"I know. You look fifteen," Catherine assured her. 

Susej scowled. "It's just that Mary looks fifteen too," she told the investigator. "I'm always mistaken for her." 

"Bet that annoyed you when you were little." Catherine cocked an eyebrow with a knowing smile. 

"When we were little, it was easier. Half the time," and here she tried very hard to act casually as she spoke, "my father didn't even know which kid he was yelling at." 

"So your father yelled?" Catherine did not disappoint; she grabbed hard for the line and kicked for shore. 

"Maybe," Susej said with nonchalance that contrasted heavily with her previous actions and air. "I was just a kid, ya know? Only nine when he died. Only nine." 

"But you remember how you felt around him," Catherine stated. She let her shoulders drop a little, trying to convey a less intimidating character to the girl. "How did you feel around your dad, Susej?" 

"Afraid," whispered the teen. Her fists clenched. "Just a lot of afraid in me." 

"And around your brother?" 

(- A man stepped drunkenly forward, brandishing a glass soda bottle. "What the hell are you doing, Su?" he screamed, lunging. "God damnit! Damien, come deal with your sister." -) 

"Just very angry." Susej turned her head away. "And I hated him." 

**3:20 PM  
Las Vegas Crime Lab  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

"Hey, Grissom," Warrick called as he entered the building. Grissom turned from Sara and Nick, waving them off. "My light vandalism got a little heavy, boss." 

"How heavy?" Grissom asked. 

Showing Grissom the clear evidence bag that encased the sweater from the dumpster, Warrick said, "Pretty heavy. There's human blood on this shirt. I'm taking it over to the lab to be processed." 

Grissom stared at the bag. Tilting his head, he reached for it and brought it closer to his eyes. "Warrick," he said, "what color do you think this is?" 

"Oh, man, hard to tell." Warrick went along good-naturedly with the line of questioning. "I'd say black, but it's still wet from last night, so it could be navy blue." 

Feeling along the plastic, Grissom turned and rearrange the lumpy fabric inside for several minutes. "I have a hunch," he said, "and if it's right you may be tied to my case." 

He stopped, then smoothed the plastic. Delicately feeling with his fingers as if to double-check his findings, Grissom smiled. Under his hand, the cloth had a small tear in it. 

"I think we just found out what size the perp wears," said he. 

"Our perp," reminded Warrick. 

**4:40 PM  
Las Vegas Crime Lab  
Sunday, June 15, 2003**

"So, Cat, what'd you get out of Susej McClanahan?" asked Sara as Catherine passed the room where she and Nick were processing the more evidence that had been taken from the crime scene. Spread over the table were almost four dozen photographs that had been in a wooden chest in the living room where the victim's finger prints had been found, bloody. Nick had suggested trying to piece together a picture of their life through the photographs. It was monotonous work: currently they were in a stack labeled with the year 1995 -- there were about a dozen large manila envelopes altogether, with at least one per year since 1995. 

Catherine stuck her head in the door. "Well, not much, but a helluva lot more than Mary's vague 'He's dead, I should have called someone,' answers. There was always this look about her, like she was swallowing more than she was telling us. I just don't know what." 

Sara cocked her head to the side. "So, what'd she say?" 

"Well, to begin with, our hunch was right. From very leading statements the girl gave, I was able to tell that yes, her father was domestically abusive," Catherine told her. "She didn't say so outright that he was hurting the children, but she did say that he yelled at them a lot. Susej said that they were very afraid of their father. Or, at least, that she and Mary were." 

"What about Damien?" Nick inquired. 

"That's where it gets a little more tricky," Catherine explained. "I think Damien was abusing them. From what I could tell, Damien was the favorite: the oldest child, the oldest son. And the boy hero-worshipped his dad, as far as Susej said. I think, and this is a hunch, that if Jude needed something done to the girls, he used Damien." 

"It fits the profile," Sara said. "If a son sees his father being abusive, he'll mimic the actions in later relationships." 

"So the question is really this: was Damien still abusive after his father passed away?" Nick stated. 

Catherine frowned. "I think he was. Susej stated that she was afraid of her father, but when asked about her brother she said she was angry and hated him. She clamed up for a while after that, probably because she thought she said too much." 

"If he had stopped six years ago, when Jude died, then she would probably have forgiven him," Sara added. "She was only about nine; it might have even faded into just her brother being a brat in her mind. Little kids forgive easily." 

"But he didn't," Catherine stated. She opened up her purse and removed a slip of paper. "I got the medical reports on the children. Susej and Mary McClanahan were frequent visitors to the ER until 1997, with broken toes, a few ankles, and, in one case, a femur. It was blamed on soccer, and that excuse was accepted." 

"Why?" Sara asked, outraged. 

"Because," Catherine explained sadly, "they were taken to different ERs, their visits spaced." She frowned. "But that's not the worst of it. Only three years ago, Susej McClanahan is rushed to emergency with a broken collarbone." 

"Ow." Sara winced. 

"Yeah," Catherine agreed. "Apparently, she fell out of a tree. But if we follow the idea of domestic abuse ..." her voice trailed off 

"So I take it your judge came through?" Nick asked. 

"About two hours ago, actually," Catherine explained. "When I spoke to Susej, the kids were already in separate homes, away from their mother. Thank God these medical reports came through -- I had them sent over to Judge Roberts first, didn't get a chance to glance at them." 

"You gambled on something you hadn't seen before?" Sara cried. 

"I figured it was a pretty good bet. It looks like Susej got the worst of it," Catherine commented from the papers. "She was in the emergency room about seven times, while I can only see three for Mary McClanahan." 

"Which is why the most important character here isn't Susej," Nick told them, "but Mary. She probably still loves her brother, still has little memories and fondnesses for him. She's twelve: she'll not have such strong values as older sister Susej, or prejudices towards hate. She'll give us the other side of it all." 

"No," Catherine said. "Who else is in the family? Little Joey. Another boy, barely mentioned by Susej. Never been to emergency. Probably has a case of hero-worship for his older brother. He could be a source of resentment for her, if he starts out abusing, too." 

Nick scoffed at the idea. "A seven-year-old boy abusing his fifteen-year-old sister? Cath, c'mon, that's a little far to reach." 

Catherine cocked her head. "Well," she said, "how old do you think Damien was when he started?" 

"We don't even know if Damien really was abusing his sisters or if Susej was lying," Nick pointed out. "You've gotta talk to all the children, alone. I'll work on the mother." 

Grissom, passing the open door with Warrick at his side, called to the group: "Sara, I need you to go to DNA and offer your services to Greg." 

"Why?" Sara asked, cleaning up. 

"Because I said so," the CSI stated simply. "Take this shirt with you. 

* 

chapter four: **The DNA-Zapper**


End file.
